One of Many
by Wren Wild
Summary: After that day, after the fall, John Watson is lost. But not alone: he has fans, and they believe in Sherlock Holmes just as much, if not more, as he does. Or: the story where fandom does what it wants, and things get meta as all get out.


The strangeness started on a Tuesday, six months after…well, after. When John had woken up, he knew it was going to be a bad day- his hand trembled, his leg ached, and he couldn't bring himself to take his cane with him when he left the flat. Mrs. Hudson had smiled sadly at him, and nodded a polite, if teary, hello.

The strangeness started three blocks away from Baker Street, while he waited with a few other pedestrians for the traffic signal to change. A woman- young, plain looking, mid-twenties- touched his shoulder, just briefly, and told him,

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes," just as the signal changed, and he lost sight of her in the surging crowd of people while he stood stock-still in shock.

It happened again two days later. It was the woman working the check-out aisle in the grocery-store, "I believe in Sherlock Holmes,", whispering the words as she passed over his change, and then turning immediately to her next customer.

And again the next week- a teenaged boy darting over from where the rest of his friends were just starting to organize a match of football in the park: "I believe in Sherlock Holmes," he said, with a smile that turned just a tad sheepish when John nearly stumbled.

And again later that day, from the cab driver, smiling as she delivered the words-"I believe in Sherlock Holmes,"- right before she sped off after dropping him at his bank.

It happened more, and more- every time he went out; three, four, five times a day he'd hear the words, a different person each time, and he never saw any of them a second time.

It wasn't only in London, either. On the day he'd taken a train to visit Harry-because she'd been getting worried about him, and because she and Clara were getting back together- he'd stumbled into a woman and managed to knock both of them down. He'd apologized profusely, but she waved him off. When her husband had rushed over, slipping an arm about her waist, he told John, "We believe in Sherlock Holmes," and they disappeared in the time it took John to become distracted when he heard Harry calling his name.

It got even more bizarre after that. The flood of words was all but constant: "I believe in Sherlock Holmes, John," or "We believe, John,"

Apparently, it wasn't limited to the U.K., as he'd found out when a trio of teens with German accents had cornered him in a bookstore to impart their message.

Or Europe: a pack of five American girls- who were, quite frankly, rather terrifying in their intensity- had broken away from their group's picnic to sing a song at him which heavily featured the repetition of the phrase _"don't stop believing"_.

Or even law-abiding citizens: he finds this out by discovering a piece a paper in his coat pocket with familiar ancient Chinese numbers on it. When fifteen minutes and a copy of London A-Z reveals it to say "we believe in him," he can't quite bring himself to be surprised, though he is a bit impressed that they managed to get it in his pocket without him noticing. Also paranoid, but that, John thinks, is rather understandable.

Most of the 'believers' that come up to him are women, though there were a decent amount of men in the demographic as well. They almost always attached his name to whatever variation of "I believe" they said to him, which was…well, John knew he wasn't an unknown, what with his blog before, and the media frenzy _after_, but the sheer amount of people who knew his name and face was mind boggling.

Three weeks after the couple at the train station, and two weeks after the appallingly off-key and impromptu choir, things changed again. John still had just as many people telling him "I believe," and variations there-of, but people also started asking a question: "Do you believe in magic, John?" and slipping away before he could properly decide whether to be outraged or feel like he'd been shot in the gut, because- _"It's a trick, John, it's all a magic trick."_ – …well, because.

It goes on like that for a week, two weeks, three, a month, and then a little more. A month and a half after the visit to Harry's, John is sitting in a café while he waits out the brief afternoon rainstorm. Sitting at the table next to him is a young woman, muttering furiously to herself as she clacks away at the keyboard to her laptop, occasionally grabbing at a pen to mark something down on her napkin, next to which a muffin lies abandoned. Her muttering is just low enough that John can't quite make out what she's saying, but audible enough to be distracting. Ten minutes later, when the rain is beginning to lighten up, her voice raises in to a decibel that he can make out.

"Past tense, present tense... one or the other, not both…" she worries her lip for a moment, and then slaps her laptop shut with a clack that startles him enough to look directly at her. "Tense is _important_, John," she states, then swishes out of the café with a quirk to her lips that tells him she is one of the believers more than her knowing his name did.

For the next three days, none of the believers say a word to him, though they make their presence known by a solemn look or brief brush of the shoulders or a shared smile. The sudden change is distinctly disconcerting, and becomes more-so the longer it goes on, until on the third day he goes back to the cafe on a hunch.

The same woman is there, in the same seat as when he first saw her, still clacking away at her keyboard, but much more calmly. He never sees the same believer twice. This, and the sudden silence of the last couple days, is enough to start the warning bells ringing in his mind.

He strides over to her table- would you look at that, hi limp is gone, he needs a better therapist- takes a seat, and without preamble starts up.

"Why is tense important, then?"

She closes the laptop slowly, and only looks at him once it's stowed away in her bag.

"Tense is important, John, because it's where the _magic_ is. It's where the _trick_ is." He flinches at that, and she takes a sip of her drink.

"Tense is important, because it isn't supposed to change. Past Tense, or Present Tense; one or the other, never both. But when it _does_ change, you know you have to pay very, very close attention. That's why it's important."

John stares at her for a very long time, something desperate clawing its way up his throat.

"What are you- what exactly are you saying?" he grinds out, because if she's saying what he thinks she's saying, if he lets himself hope-

"Language is an amazing thing, John. The meaning you can put into a single sentence with tone, inflection, creative use of pauses… with tense._ I_ believe in Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. Do you?"

"Are you saying he's not- is he-" John can hardly get the words out, and all the hope he'd let go of in the first few months _after _is rushing back with a vengeance. The woman puts a finger to her lips, as if shushing him as she gets up.

"One more miracle, Dr. Watson, and then a million more after."

John is stunned motionless with the weight of the thought, and the woman is almost through the café door before he can find his voice.

"Wait-!" he calls out, rising up after her. "Who are you?"

She stops, like she needs to think about it. "A fan," she tells John, "One of many."


End file.
